Fault Lines
by Bolinlover123
Summary: The battle was finally over; they took back Republic City. Now, as everyone struggles to rebuild the City and move on, Bolin searchers for closure. Dealing with guilt at his involvement with Kuvira, he tries to find new meaning in his life, and to ultimately forgive himself. First, he needs to face the women who has been haunting him.


**Hey, guys! This particular work of mine is dedicated for an awsome dude; his FF author name is ' _kaithelonechampion'_ while his blog is is called ' _PatrickArch'_ on tumblr. His drawings and fanfiction are mostly dedicated to all things Bolin, and Borra. Needles to say, his works are are a great contributer to the Korra fandom.**

 **Here it is, K. Hope you enjoy!**

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" _Sorry."_

 _{Sorry_ means you feel the pulse of other people's pain as well as your own, and saying it means you take a share of it. And so it binds us together, makes us trodden and sodden as one another. _Sorry_ is a lot of things. It's a hole refilled. A debt repaid. _Sorry_ is the wake of misdeed. It's the crippling ripple of consequence. _Sorry_ is sadness, just as knowing is sadness. _Sorry_ is sometimes self-pity. But _Sorry_ , really, is not about you. It's theirs to take or leave.

 _Sorry_ means you leave yourself open, to embrace or to ridicule or to revenge. _Sorry_ is a question that begs forgiveness, because the metronome of a good heart won't settle until things are set right and true. _Sorry_ doesn't take things back, but it pushes things forward. It bridges the gap. _Sorry_ is a sacrament. It's an offering. A gift.  
― Craig Silvey, Jasper Jones}

 **Chapter 1-**

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The dull clunk of his boots padding against the newly-polished floor brings him small comfort as the passive-faced, silent officer leads him down the labyrinth of halls that occupy the facility. Bolin's reflection shining back up at him through the waxy tiles shows determined eyes, yet the curve of his mouth, and the slight shaking of his hands proves otherwise. He stuffs his bitten-nailed fingers back in his pocket, hands fisting around the possession tucked inside to make sure it's still warm.

His green eyes dart left, and right, at the rectangles of rusting doors that line the walls; each square, three-barred window passing behind him with an unfamiliar, sullen, grim face hiding beneath its shadows. He tries not to imagine past enemies rotting in a place like this for years, and fails to keep the images of shackled hands and hallowed-out eyes at bay. Zaheer and his cohorts never cracked in all their thirteen years of imprisonment. Bolin wonders what it would take lesser men to admit. Three years ago he would never dare step foot in a place like this again; not after the first time, when he and Mako were freshly scared, the same question being asked again-

 _Is this the man?_

 _Is this the man that hurt your mom and dad?_

 _Is this the man that killed your parents?_

 _Can you tell us more of what you saw/remember/ what he looked like?_

 _I know this is scary, but, you've been such brave boys._ And then the man that gave up on Mako after over an hour of the eight-year old's shell-shocked silence and glassy-eyed gaze; the man had turned to little Bolin, and had asked if any of the firebending criminals standing on the other side of the wall was the one that would haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.

 _I-I don't remember,_ his little voice had audible shook, and the officer's gaze had softened slightly. He had taken a look through his files again, checking over the officer's first claim, as one who had first been to the scene, and that, _yes_ , both boys had witnessed their parents go down at the hands of the mugger.

 _M-mako says I was there, b-but I don't remember anything._

And the officer had turned away with a sigh, saying something about an _orphanage/foster care/ factories_ and _what a tragedy this was for two boys so young_ and how _sometimes we only see what we want to, and don't realize what's happening until it's too late._

Bolin remembers that much.

The ghosts of this place swim around him, lurking in the corner. He welcomes them now.

The officer of the here and now finally halts in front of a tightly-locked cell, and Bolin draws a shaky breath.

With a pull of the latch, the bolt unhooks, and the door grinds open with a high- pitched squelch that can only be from the excess metal layers due to extra precaution.

Bolin frowns at this, for how can she be any physical threat when shut up all the way down here? Their unnecessary paranoia unnerves him. Bolin's fingers twitch at his side, already itching for sunlight, for the familiar life-warming sense of the earth. _How can a person survive down here?_ Bolin wouldn't last a week.

"You have five minutes, kid," the man gruffs, "Use it wisely." He fixes his eyes just towered Bo's right; his gaze looking towered his direction seemingly making 'following orders' just that much harder.

'Thanks," Bolin offers the familiar-guard-from-so-long-ago a curt nod. The man locks his eyes with his, daring, and he flicks his away, jaw set. _I rememeber, I remember I remember you. I remember how you scent us to the orphanage. I remember all the times you arrested us just for trying to survive. How you beat Mako over the head with a club when he was fourteen, and how his tooth shattered when his jaw hit the ground. I remember you kicking us out of our shelter that one horrible winter and how frostbite nearly took my fingers._

 _Do you remember me?_

 _Of course you don't._

He nods stiffly, "Very well. Good luck," and spins on his heels.

Bolin listens as his footsteps fade just outside the hall where he knows he is waiting, and he approaches the bars tentatively.

The silhouette is slumped against a chair in the corner, her familiar frame looking thinner than Bolin remembered, yet he recalls her flickering eyes narrowed in hatred when secured inside the Giant Robot. He doesn't recognize this woman now.

"...Hello, Kuvira."

 _"Bolin?"_

Said lavabender peers into the cell with a small smile, and finds the room...smaller...than he had expected. It had only one bed, and a little whole that he assumed was meant to pass as a toilet, in the corner. Bolin recalls the cell that he and Mako had been shoved into in Ba Sing Se had at least had window.

"Don't act so surprised," Bolin tries to kept his voice amiable, but finds himself failing. The edge in his voice was foreign to his ear, the bite to his words tasting bitter. "The guard notified you beforehand. Who'd you think the 'goofy ex-subordinate' visiting you was going to be? Varrick?"

Kuvira blinks. "I just...What are you doing here?" Her greasy hair falls on her face; a protective sheild.

A weary smile crosses Bolin's face, "Well, I don't really know exactly. Nightmares tend to ware on a person after a few weeks. Gut-crushing guilt is no help, either. And I'm not just talking about me," his voice is too raspy. His hands are shaking again. _Fuck_. "Really, Kuvira... I just need some answers,"


End file.
